goldenbishop (goldenbishop) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2014-01-25 01:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | ariadne, mister freeze |
WHO: Blake and Amelia Thorne
WHERE: Blake's place
WHEN: Right after his sentencing and her arrival to Vegas.
WHAT: The siblings reunite. Snark and awkwardness ensues.
RATING: Probably R for Blake's mouth.
STATUS: Complete
Amelia decided in the end leaving Joshua with a babysitter would be best for this reunion. She was not the type of mother to have a live-in nanny, at least in part because she got absorbed in her loneliness after his birth. She drifted in their beautiful but empty home, she painted and mooned and waited, and the door was officially closed and locked. He might have put a polite wall between her and Blake, or maybe it was the opposite. She worried a bit about the babysitter, but she was assured by the hotel they only hired the best. A resume was provided. He cheerfully waved at her while staring at his iPad when she left. Now the question was how long it would take her to get up the courage to do what she came here for. And that was to start out by seeing him. It'd been a long time. Amelia received updates from time to time by their father, but she was usually off in other states and countries, rarely in one place for long. She was not certain what to say really, about her motivations or reasons, just that she knew she needed to be there. In Vegas, and that meant him, more than the journals. She finally gathered her steel to show up. He was on house arrest for at least eight months, less for good behavior. She only hoped, for his benefit, he played nice until it was over. What exactly was there to say or do about this? Their father seemed to be at a loss. The media had their own theories, ugly theories, theories she never for a moment believed. She argued it was slander too, in a way, but no one controlled the paparazzi. Amelia dressed elegantly and simply, her dress well made and a combination of black and green. She was wearing much more green these days, it just felt right somehow. It might have to do with flashes of it in her dreams, and a voice she did not give power to. That was too much. She knocked only briefly out of courtesy for Blake, and stepped inside, into the place he currently called home. "Hello? It's Amelia." It was fair warning. The apartment was as tastefully lavish as one might expect, done up in greys and blacks and whites, slate blues with masculine pops of decor. All arranged by a decorator, of course. Blake had always had better things to do than fritter away his time adorning the walls of his apartment. After all, he tried to spend as little time in the cavernous place as possible, at least by himself. Now he didn't have much of a choice. Now, by court mandate, these four (five six seven eight, maybe it was best not to count to guest rooms) were a prison. It was a prison where every drop of alcohol had already been cleaned out, the obvious stashes by the police and the hidden caches by the lawyers his father had appointed to swoop down on him like nannies. For fuck's sake, wasn't his life his own to fuck up anymore? The truth was that he didn't care much. Not about going to jail, not about getting fucked up and crashing his car. What he cared about was how quiet the fucking apartment was. He'd blasted music and turned the TV on for the first day or two, but that had only made it worse, somehow. Visitors were limited to one group per day, which meant nobody was partying at his place. There were people he could call, sure, and he intended to, but aside from a pre-approved list of friends and acquaintances, he was isolated. That meant no calling the escort service when he was horny at three in the morning, and no early morning coke deliveries. He failed one drug screen and it was straight into prison. And who gave a fuck, really, except for the vague threat of being totally destroyed by that system, and he wavered between caring and wanting to throw himself into those gnashing teeth, to really slam into rock bottom at a hundred miles an hour. He still had a wifi connection, but he wasn't fucking stupid enough to check the news reports. Huffington post had run a clickbait story about him on their front page. THIS PLAYBOY IS UNDER HOUSE ARREST - BUT IT GETS WORSE. Tack 'allegedly' onto something and you could say fucking anything without a libel suit sticking. So what if Richard Mendel, his dad's right hand guy, had already been popped for organizing the kidnapping six months ago? He'd gone straight to jail claiming to anyone who would listen that Blake Thorne had persuaded him to do the deed. Nevermind the fact that the whole thing had been arranged to point his way. Richard just said he'd had a change of heart once the young man was actually kidnapped, and had tried to warn everyone by pointing the finger at Blake. He'd been hungry for his father's money, hadn't been getting the cut he wanted of daddy's stash, just another spoiled rich boy with a hunger for his inheritance before his father was conveniently dead. It was a good story. People ate it up. What had been idle speculation spun out into something like flat out accusation in the last six months, but Blake had simply burrowed deeper while becoming more exposed, a blurry wash of watercolor memories and fucking. There had been the occasional concrete thing, those one or two solid beings in the mess, but whatever. Fuck them. March had fallen off the face of the earth in a way that stank to Blake of death. He hadn't been able to track him down, and he had tried, quietly, without making a thing of it. He'd gone into the hospital and never come out, never sent a postcard, nothing, just gone like a little kid's nightmare. People disappeared. They got sick or people kidnapped them out from under you, or they went into the hospital and never came back. There were black holes in this world that swallowed people. It just went to show that there was no fucking sense in letting yourself care about anybody. What were friends and family if they could go at any time, right? What fucking sense did anything make? And now there was nothing to take the edge off. There was nobody, there was no pill. It made him want to tear something up. Anger was still an outlet. Self-loathing could still get him someplace, as could rending someone to shreds. It almost made him feel bad for Amelia when she offered to come visit. But she brought the dead with her, dead times and dead people, and it made his stomach turn over with fear under all that vitriol. The most fucked up thing about it all was that he still wanted to see her. She was his fucking sister, after all, and even though they hadn't grown up too much together, he'd always liked her, felt bad when her guy was a total fuckwit, but that had been right before everything went wrong, and after that he'd been too fucking busy fleeing to the other side of the country and dumping acid on his brain to feel too bad about anything. Her voice at the door was almost unfamiliar, it had been so long. Blake, for his part, was laid out on the couch, dozing. What else was there to do these days except pace and sleep and sometimes go through the door? The hotel had somehow ended up on his list of preapproved travel locations. He still wasn't sure how, but he wasn't questioning it. It was better these days to disappear somewhere he didn't have to be thinking. It was the only reprieve left. "What's up, sis?" he asked, sitting up. “Long time no see you at all.” She wasn’t at the funeral. He hadn’t forgotten. But they were a self-involved bunch, the Thornes, and she had a kid, right? He was wearing a loose fitting yellow tee and a pair of dark, loose Gareth Pughs. He rolled over onto his stomach, staring up at her. "Nice dress," he offered. His dark hair was a mess of tangles, hanging halfway into his eyes. He looked tired, drawn, like he'd been up for much too long. "Are you planning on converting to that wicca shit? You've got witch colors on. I hear it's some good stuff. Lots of dancing naked around fires, stuff like that." As she walked in, she gave a curious look around, and it did not take long to see he hired a decorator for the place. A tasteful one too, and Amelia did appreciate a certain style. Her home was a mixture of her own touch with that of the most offbeat person she could find. It was a precise decision made, since one could hardly make a splash in the art world without having the right image. She sold it. Now someone else would enjoy the space she put careful work into, until it was the right blend of home and poise. She left behind her paintings too, it sweetened the deal. She never wanted to see those ones again, because they reminded her of when she first walked through the hall and filled it with images in her head. Happier times. In truth, she thought of Blake's situation as being the best possible situation. It never occurred to her that this was nearly worse to him than the alternative. Jail seemed like such a horrific option, anything must be the better choice. His vehemence surprised her, but she took it with more concern than offense. She did remember the boy he was, and the young man full of promise. How much someone could change with the wrong set of circumstances. There was a time when she resented his existence, and then another one when she thought he needed mothering. Amelia had their mother once. She found being a mother very easy. "Yes, I know, it's been a long time." There were a thousand empty excuses to make, but none she cared to try, since they were lies. She was wrapped in her tragedy, and it was admittedly not as serious as his. She found no words for him then, what did one say in the face of such loss? So silence was the answer. "I like what you've done with the space here." It was polite to compliment the home, but it was also genuine. It didn't seem quite him at the same time. Who was to say the real him was now? She was faced with learning about him all over again, the context of why he had the anklet on now staring at her in the face. The reference to her dress, that surprised her, she smoothed down the fabric and thought it through. Witch colors. Yes, well, that would make sense. "No, I'm not the woodsy type. I've been invited to them before, artists are notorious for trying whatever seems right at the time." It was very in the fashion, the art scene. They liked to say they were indifferent to the outside world. She knew better. It was difficult to say the next part. "I think … it's changed since I got my little unexpected gift." It was normal, for them, but disconcerting. It wasn't him. Nothing about the place struck a chord as being very Blake, but it was an apt observation. He didn't know what kind of home would make him look around and think, here, if any place could be that, if there was a painting or a carpet color that could externalize him, an out of place book or a stack of music. What would that place be like? He didn't spend much time thinking about things like that. Self-reflection was something he avoided with a passion, the glances like jabs of pain from a phantom limb. There was nothing there to see, but what he did see, turned to just the right like, he didn't like. He only took the time to glance long enough to see what he despised, and, satisfied, turned his gaze away again. Nothing good came from thinking about yourself, nothing. "Really?" he asked, throwing out an exaggerated, limp wrist, brows bouncing up. "Thank you, I do so love the decor." He sat up on the couch, pushing up onto his knees. He could see her properly now. There were lines around her eyes chiseled by pain and abandonment and heartache. He noticed these things. He had a good eye for people. But feigning ignorance was so much easier, and it made life so much simpler a thing. He kept his head down and shoved his way forward, deliberately forgetting the useful and the true. "So is this your green period?" he asked, a flash of an old fashioned education working its way to the top of constant profanity and colloquial speech. There was more to him that met the eye, and she'd know that. He'd never been ostentatious, but he wasn't a fool. He just played one on TV. "Oh, the voice in your head. Yeah, how's that fucking going for you? Are they making you make weird fucking mixed media or something? Are you waking up in the middle of painting some bullshit Thomas Kinkade and getting all horrified? I'm trying to imagine your worst nightmare, here, help me out." She knew people who preferred homes that didn't feel like homes. That personal touch meant it touched a part of them, and strangers would have to come inside, dirty it up, see what no one wanted seen. Or perhaps that was just her dramatic way of looking at things, because Amelia loved her space. It was why it hurt now, and she might have an extended stay at a hotel, or somewhere nothing felt personalized in. Eventually she would have to set down roots again, if not for her sake, for Joshua's. For now he was young enough the wandering life might suit him. She left her number in several locations in case her ex-husband tried to check in on his son, and she heard no word. He might as well have drowned on the yacht he took instead, and occasionally she imagined it without much regret. Those were the edges and cuts and dark spots Amelia attempted to rise above, but they were under the surface. Simmering. She smiled when he mentioned the green period, small but pleased, and took a seat nearby him. Her posture was still stiff and regal, either from practice or anxiety seeping into her body language. "Those were his early days, but it does ring a little true, yes. We've all had our blue and green periods, haven't we?" Amelia clasped her hands together, long fingers painstakingly cleaned, although there were oils under her fingertips she never could wipe. The nails were very short, so they never got in the way. There was much more to him than he let show, and that effort to keep it underneath let it shine. She felt like he was there under the surface, begging to spill over. Or perhaps that was a hope. "I haven't gotten much from her outside of the fact she's angry. All the time." It was strange to be sitting there, doing something simple, and get this wave of fury. Amelia's senses told her there should be power underneath it, but she had no real power of her own. Just the vague sense of it, lost to her. "I wouldn't say this is my worst nightmare, but it's definitely an unexpected one." Who would have seen this type of madness coming? "How long has this happened, Blake? Did … it have anything to do with what happened here?" If he was pushed to the breaking point because of this, it would make a great deal of sense. Amelia always did sit like a little fucking queen. Maybe it was being born into the passle of his sisters, first children of the media mogul, and all the expectations that came with it. Blake had always really sucked at expectations, though he'd tried for a long time to meet them. Their father had never been cruel or overbearing, but certain things went unsaid. Sure, he could have dropped out of high school and become a DJ, but that wasn't really done. No one needed to tell him or pick a job for him. He was going to go to college and be something. That was what Thornes did. They weren't the Kardashians. They were the nouveau riche elite. He'd blasted that all to shit for everybody, but who the fuck cared? They had enough money to buy god and shortsell him, and every family should have at least one black sheep to keep things from getting boring as fuck, right? Keepin' it relevant since 2010. The statement about blue and green periods drew a vague grunt of assent, and he fell back against the back of the couch. At least he was sitting up this time. He wasn't really sure where she was going with that one, but it sounded dangerously like the kind of blanket statement that might also apply to him. Not cool. "Sounds like fun," he intoned, swiftly and thoughtlessly. "Oh, for a while now. I got one of those book things like a year ago. My head buddy's changed a couple times. We don't chat much. You know how it is with roommates." He pulled his legs up underneath himself. "Some are fun, some suck, some are completely fucking crazy. Apparently some people get piloted around by their doorside sticking a mental hand up their ass and running them around Vegas like their own personal meat muppet." He offered a thumbs up. "Good luck." Amelia was very aware of what Thornes did and did not do. She was trained properly, like her sisters, and they knew what was expected of them. They were good at it too. She went to the right college, picked the right extracurriculars, and developed a skill that was both lucrative and pretentious. She genuinely loved art, and since the upper class liked to brag about their Picassos and Rembrandts, she was right at home. Galas, galleries, and charity events became her raison d'être. Blake went his own way, and he was the only son, so she suspected that came with more pressure and less. Their father did treasure him, despite his mistakes. It used to bother her, but that resentment passed over time. There were good times too, when he was young and precocious and made them laugh. Now she wished she paid more attention, because there was so much anger and bitterness coming out of him right then. She didn't have a leg to stand on, asking for him to open up, after years of distance. "I'm glad I didn't go with my gut and call a therapist almost immediately. I wasn't sure how to explain I think I'm hearing voices and have a magical journal without ending up checked into a ward." Amelia smiled when she said it, but it was pretty serious for at least a few days there. Going mad seemed the only response to it at first. Then again the best artists were a little mentally unstable, so in an objective sense, this was probably good for her art. Strange as that was. "A year." She sounded dismayed, and she was. That was a long time to be drawn into this, with no answers, and Amelia knew their money wasn't going to get them out of this. "I guess the answer wouldn't be to toss the journal into a shredder." She was still thinking about it. She didn't like being controlled or giving in to anything peacefully. "I know this is a stupid question, but humor me. How are you?" Blake grinned. "They would have chucked you into some fucking 'rest facility' so goddamn fast your head would have spun. That would have made some pretty good headlines though, right? You might even have knocked me off the front page. Should have gone for it." He rocked back a little, still smiling. Ah, yes, once upon a time he'd been the good sign. Adventurous? Sure. A bit of a partier? Absolutely. But he'd graduated with good grades from Harvard Business and he'd been next in line to the Thorne throne. All that had crashed to shit, though, and these days it was hard to even remember why he'd wanted to do it in the first place. Because it had seemed important. What was even important, anymore? What fucking made a difference? At her dismay, he tilted his head to the side, reaching out to touch her arm. "Some people have been around even longer. Two years, three. This is for the long haul, sweetie. Some people ditch, obviously. Get the easy route out, their door side just goes up in smoke, disappears. Not me," he said, shaking his head, picking at the collar of his shirt. "Not so far." Amelia's question drew a slow look, up from the nape of his neck to meet her gaze. His eyes were a little too still, and he stopped picking at his shirt when she asked. There seemed to be a hint of exhausted, really? to that gaze. He smiled anyway. What was underneath it, from anger to mirth straight down the line to cloth-tearing insanity, was anybody's guess. Nobody knew him, anymore. He'd worked very hard for that. "I'm peachy," he said. "How about you?" There was almost an accusation in it. Everybody knew what had happened to her marriage. How did she feel when people asked her? Touched her shoulder gently and turned their mouths down in rictus sympathy? How did that make her feel about how she was? Could she even have put what was inside her into simple words? Amelia smiled in return, because he was absolutely correct. "Yes they would. I probably would not make it out the door before someone showed up." And the tabloids would foam at the mouth. They loved stories of the rich, the dirtier the better, and she learned to live with it years ago. It touched her less than others of their ilk, since on the whole she kept out of trouble. She had a few stints as a teenager and young adult, mostly with prescription pills and a party here and there, but nothing serious. She was glad it changed, since otherwise she would have ended up like Caroline King. "I'm not sure I would knock your name off, I'm overall less interesting." She wasn't considered the heir, after all. She was slightly comforted by his brief show of kindness at the touch. The little gestures she'd have to take when they happened. He was surrounded with a big shield at the moment, it was going to take time to chip through. The news was still bad. "Years of this, I'm not sure if I can handle that." She wouldn't call herself delicate, but high strung? A bit. "Have you tried leaving the area? If it made a difference." Amelia was still learning. It couldn't possibly be that easy, she had to hold on to hope. She knew it was a bad question and there was no right answer for it, but it was the only real question to come up with. The elephant in the room, a symbol of it right there on his ankle. Amelia heard the accusation and met his gaze firmly. She had a little fire in her, a spine, when she required it. "Not peachy," she said directly, honestly. "My ex-husband traded his son for a yacht." Their father would never do that. He was a good man, on the whole. It never occurred to her anyone was so cold, but experience taught her more. "I know I've been distant and haven't been here, Blake. I'm here now, if it makes any difference." Blake smiled, shark-like. "They used to say that about Lindsey Lohan and Amanda Bynes," he said, shrugging a shoulder. "And look how far they've come. I think you've got a lot of potential. Especially if you start flashing photographers when you get out of limos. Work on that. As for leaving, don't even bother. I was in Dubai a few months ago. It didn't make the little voice go away even a little bit." Surreal indeed, visiting the ultra luxurious hotels and sampling the cream of what the city had to offer, and yet there was always a dusty piece of a desert on the other side of the world, following him. Blake's brows shot up at Amelia's recap of her dissolved marriage, a real smile spreading across his face this time, halfway suppressed. For her, that was pretty catty, and it gave him real pleasure to hear the claws come out a little. "Sounds like he was a keeper," he said, all blase dismissal. There was commiseration in it. It was jovial, and breezy about her pain, but it meant that she was better off, that there would have been no happiness if that marriage had stayed intact. At least she didn't end up Havishaming it up, wandering around an empty manse staring haunted out of windows in a white veil. Hey, that was his job, she couldn't have it. When she protested that she was here now, he smiled, just a little. He knew what she meant, but she didn't understand. He'd moved to the other side of the country for a reason. There had been real purpose in the distance, there had been intent. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I see that." The names weren't familiar to her, outside of a vague memory in the back of her head. Amelia was in and out of the country, her husband was foreign and Europe was better known for its art culture. This was the last American city she expected to find herself. She rolled her eyes at his suggestion; he was trying to shock her, and he was, to an extent. Not enough to shake her off. "The worst they can get me on right now, they already have. Sorry, you still have the spotlight. But maybe they will forget." The court was over. There were other high profile cases yet to come. Going to Dubai or the other side of the world wasn't going to end it. Amelia was getting tired of accepting the ridiculousness that became of her life. She felt like being stubborn and resentful simply because she could. His smile was unexpected, and she wasn't sure if it was mocking or sincere. "He's a very rich man now. And someone else's problem." She was bitter the most about him sailing away with more than her bruised hear, but her money too. That's the problem with no prenup agreement. She wouldn't make that mistake again, but it was too late for hindsight. "I want to bring Joshua by, some time. When you're willing." He reminded her a little of Blake as a child, but that wasn't the type of thing to share. She might be looking for it too closely. Amelia wrung her hands together and watched him. "What do you plan on doing here?" "They will." Of course they'd forget. People always forgot. But while most people had short memories, the sight of him or his appearance in the news made the attention flare back to life again. You built yourself a reputation, and scandal only existed while everyone was looking. In between stories they would stop thinking about him while he was out of the room, but when people heard his name, they thought, Isn’t that the guy who… People forgot, but they didn’t. They didn’t think of you, but a lingering unease did remain. “That’s the spirit.” He didn’t think much of that fuckwit she’d married, though he’d been around for so little of the whole debacle that he didn’t know much more than had been in the tabloids, ironically enough. His father had mentioned a thing or two, the couple of times they’d spoken. Chalk it up to fate or not, but just about everybody in the family was their own kind of private mess. There were, of course, exceptions, but maybe that was the fate of obscenely moneyed people. Sharks swam around them all day and all night. “Just get a fucking prenup next time,” he advised, as though he didn’t realize that she’d likely thought of nothing else for the past year. It was a good lesson for her to learn. People left, people betrayed you, people went out of their way to fuck you. If it had taken her this long to realize that you couldn’t trust people you loved to stick around, then she’d been well past due for that particular lesson. He watched her, wringing her hands and watching him. She was a pretty thing, and she wasn’t an idiot. She’d find another guy someday soon, no doubt, somebody to be a dad to her kid. Maybe she’d be more careful, this time. Maybe she’d treat the arrangement as the contract it was. At Joshua’s name, Blake shook his head. “You really want to bring a kid in here?” he asked. He’d met the boy only a few times before, and it was unlikely he even remembered him. Something about having children around made him uneasy. Too open, too trusting. Too much room for error. What was he going to do? “Stare out the window and whittle a shiv,” he said. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He couldn’t let himself think about that, about the yawning black stretch of months before him, alone in the apartment. But she was wringing her hands and talking about kids, which meant this conversation was about to start veering into territory he could live without discussing for another day. He stood, and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Don’t you worry about me,” he said, with the finality of time to go.”I get along great with my cellmates, the bed is comfortable, and the food’s great. I think I’m going to do just fine.” The paparazzi went after the newest and juiciest story, that was just reality. The rich and powerful in particular drew attention; either to see them fall, or simply because they got into more complicated situations. "I agree, there's no shortage of new stories." Sooner or later he'd be old news, although they'd probably dredge it up again later on, when his next hearing came up. When it was time for him to get off his house arrest, but that was going to be a new string of problems. Amelia wasn't certain what would happen from there; was he going to continue on his current path? She got tense after that and frowned, her jaw clenching. "Yes, that is something I paid for and will probably pay for again, when he gets troubled again." Amelia had the divorce papers done. They settled by her offering an outrageous sum of money for him to walk away for good. But she lost her naiveté about it. He'd be back. "It's a lesson to learn, when someone fools you that completely." It was more than she thought she'd reveal about it; the wound was just too raw. He was attractive in the beginning because he seemed to think so little of money. It was a subtle change. Then one day he said he was going on a trip to meet individuals for a new gallery, and came back only when his mood suited it. Another man was the last thing on her mind. After being burned, she would have her days of suspecting the worst of them. It was a human reaction. Besides, she had a focus at the moment. "In here? Well, your place is decent. He's not old enough to think too much on the details." Joshua was a bright boy, but he would probably just be curious about this person in his life he didn't remember. Amelia spoke of his uncle to him. He might be interested only a few minutes before wanting his iPad, or maybe not. She got the message and stood. Another time she might press, but it wasn't time yet. She was not going to overstay her welcome in this time and place. It was too soon after his life took yet another turn for the worst. "Worrying about you is going to become a habit, I'm afraid. Especially with talk of shivs." She smiled faintly though and hesitated before stepping closer to him. Her hand reached out to touch his arm gently. "Blake, my schedule is clear. If you need any distractions. I'm here." That was all she could do for now. It was a funny thing, for Blake, to see his sister as a woman scorned. He'd never imagined her like that, but he'd never imagined himself as a fuckup under house arrest by himself, and yet, here they were. "That's the spirit," he said, offhanded. She was better off not trusting. She could know better, now, a little bit of cynicism never hurt anybody. Or a lot. And maybe it did, but at least you were better prepared for next time. "I always need distractions," he said, easily. The distraction of his nephew still gave him a little twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach, but he could get through that. He was just a kid. Nothing to be freaked out about. "Next time you get bored, come on over," he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. Yes, that would be sweet. Sibling bonding while he had nowhere to go. At least she was interesting to talk to - at least she would, as she said, distract. That had to count for something. Maybe next time he could turn the conversation fully on her and really enjoy himself. Who the fuck wanted to hear about him? "And bring some smokes, next time," he added. "You don't get a sibling discount on mine. I need them for trade." |